


Tea For Two

by Wrockstargirl



Series: USUK [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, America POV, M/M, Memories, Sad, Tea, the sadness is real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:31:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5077900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrockstargirl/pseuds/Wrockstargirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred was in the kitchen, like he always was everyday at three thirty, preparing hot chocolate for himself and tea for Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea For Two

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you so much for reading! If you have any suggestions or constructive criticism, please leave them in the comments section! I hope you enjoy!

The old grandfather clock that sat in the parlor chimed as its antique face read three thirty. Alfred was in the kitchen, like he always was everyday at three thirty, preparing hot chocolate for himself and tea for Arthur. Arthur liked his tea to be prepared in a very specific way: the water had to be boiled in a kettle on the stove (“electric water heaters make the water taste all off!”); the tea had to be loose, not bagged (what is this, a bloody drive through? I don’t need a bag!”); a small dash of milk (“not a splash, you bloody git! That’s far too much!”) for black tea; a third of a tablespoon of sugar (“yes, half a tablespoon is too much sugar! It blocks out all the flavor!”) for green tea and three drops of honey (“no more, no less, mind you!”) for white tea. Arthur liked black tea on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, green tea on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, and white tea on Sundays. As today was a bright and beautiful Sunday afternoon, Alfred was preparing white tea for Arthur. As the water boiled, Alfred got out one of the China teacups and its matching saucer that Arthur had brought with him from England when he’d moved to the United States to be with Alfred. He smiled at the memory of Arthur’s first day here and, coincidentally, the first time he’d taught Alfred how to make tea. He used to be hopeless at making tea, doing things in the correct order, simultaneously making his own hot chocolate. But now Alfred could do it smoothly and all on his own. Alfred poured the hot water into Alfred’s cup and his own mug (it had a picture of Snoopy lying on top of his dog house across a white background) and added in the tea and cocoa mix into their respective cups. As he waited for the concoctions to brew, Alfred put away and took out various things in a well practiced dance that he was accustomed to. He mixed his hot chocolate and strained Arthur’s tea; he added marshmallows to his mug and honey to Arthur’s. Alfred set everything on a tray and added a small vase with fresh Blue Victoria flowers, Arthur’s favorite American flowers (both for the name and their country of origin), to the tray. Alfred left the kitchen feeling rather accomplished with his tray and made his way to the drawing room in his house. He paused in front of the door. His hands began to shake slightly and his grip began to loosen. Stop it, he thought to himself. Stop getting so emotional. It’s four in the afternoon, and you’re sitting down to have your afternoon hot chocolate, that’s all. Alfred took a deep breath and pushed the door open with his hip. The sitting room was a cheery place, with a merry fire crackling in the grate and beautiful landscape pictures hanging on the walls, but to Alfred it looked all wrong; Arthur wasn’t in there. He hadn’t been there for nearly a year.  
Alfred’s hands continued to shake as he set the tray down on the small end table that was situated in between two comfy arm chairs, the royal blue being Alfred’s and the dark red being Arthur’s. Alfred sat down in his blue chair and picked up his mug with his now severely shaking hands as tears began to spring up in his eyes. No, I will not cry, I will not cry, he wouldn’t want me to cry, he’s been gone for a year now, why am I still crying? Alfred thought. A single tear managed to escape and it dripped silently off of his check on onto one of the hands that was holding his mug. As soon as he saw the teardrop on his hand, Alfred began to shake so badly that he dropped his hot chocolate mug onto the floor, the frothy liquid spreading across the wooden surface.  
“He’s gone, he’s gone, crying won’t bring him back, making him tea won’t bring him back. Nothing’s going to bring him back” Alfred muttered, his head in his hands as he rocked back and forth, tears now streaming freely down his face. “Stop it, stop it, just stop it!” he angrily yelled at himself as his mind filled with memories of him and Arthur together: Their meeting over Facebook; their blatantly obvious crushes on each other; Arthur refusing to be in a long distance relationship when Alfred finally asked him out; Alfred going to London to ask Arthur out again; Arthur saying yes; the week that they spent together afterwards; their heartfelt goodbye at the airport; the late night Skype conversations of them lamenting their distance; Arthur spontaneously moving to America; their first time, the night after Arthur had showed up on Alfred’s doorstep, suitcases in hand; Arthur teaching Alfred how to make tea. “Stop thinking about him!” Alfred shouted at himself, pulling angrily at his blonde hair. He knew, as he’d known for a year, that he’d never be able to stop though; Arthur had become too much of a part of his life for Alfred to not think about him: Alfred couldn’t go to bed without thinking about how Arthur snored; he couldn’t wake up without thinking about how cuddly Arthur was in the morning (who knew that Arthur would be the cuddler in their relationship?); he couldn’t even make his hot chocolate without thinking about Arthur shuffling about the kitchen, trying (and failing) to cook, and making Arthur some tea, even though he knew that Arthur wasn’t there to drink it.  
Alfred fell asleep crying, and when his younger brother, Matthew, came to visit him later that evening, Matthew found him curled up in Arthur’s red armchair, like Matthew had found him every time he’d come to visit his older brother ever since Arthur had died.


End file.
